


A Turnip Forty Books

by ANonsense



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BeeGees, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Humor, Incompetent Snipers, Jim Has Issues, Jim is frustrated, No really these are actual issues, Parody, Poor Jim, Swimming Pools, The Pool Scene, You just can't get the staff, everything that can go wrong does, nothing goes according to plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 13:13:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10832001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANonsense/pseuds/ANonsense
Summary: In which everything that could go wrong for Jim at the pool scene... does.





	A Turnip Forty Books

            “Brought you a little getting to know you present,” says Sherlock, smirking and holding up the memory stick like a tennis ball to a dog. Oh that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance. All to distract me from _this_.”

            And, as he says this, John steps out from behind one of the changing cubicle curtains dressed in a rather bulky parka and clears his throat.

            There is a rather tense silence.

            “John?” says Sherlock, weakly, after a few seconds of nothing, and then watches as John’s left eye scrunches up in pain and he pushes a finger into his ear to adjust something. There are a few more seconds of awkward silence and a quiet buzzing sound like vocal instructions coming from John’s earpiece.

            “Eeling,” says John, after a short wait. With the way he winces, it is apparently the wrong word. “Good eeli- oh, sorry. Good evening. Tissy- no, no, wait… Tissy is a… This here is a turnip? Forty books… A turning fortibus…  A turnip forty bucks… um… No? Ok… well, I think he said something about a turnip at least…”

            “Turnip?” Sherlock’s nose scrunches up.

            “Yeah…”

            “Odd.”

            “Can Simon Stopptiss… idio- um- idiot… Simon Stopptiss is an idiot? …no… no, ok.” There was another long pause. “I think he’s coming out.”

            “Your pet is an idiot!” comes a rather irritated singsong tone from the corridor on the far side.

            “You’re Irish and it was buzzing,” replies John. “Sorry. I did _try_.”

            Jim huffs and enters. “I had it all planned out and everything,” he complains. “I wanted to compliment you on location-”

            “Thank you,” says Sherlock.

            “Shut up! It’s all ruined! Your stupid pet ruined it!” snaps Jim. “I was going to enter dramatically and I’ve been waiting outside in a stuffy car for an hour and a half to do that, and then you have to go and-”

            “So you’re only part time on the hospital night shift, then? Or did you call in sick?”

            “I never _worked_ at the hospital!!”

            “Then I can see how you managed to blend in so well with the rest of the IT department.”

            “You ditched the accent,” says John. “Might have been easier to understand over an earpiece.”

            Jim’s mouth flattens. It is clear he is trying to ignore the fact he has heard John. Eyes narrowed in John’s direction, he says, “Sherlock, is that an M9A… no,” he pauses; licks his lips; retries, “L… L87… L97A…”

            “It’s John’s Browning,” says Sherlock.

            Jim ignores him. “Is that a gun in your pocket!?” he asks over the top of the detective. “Or are you just _pleased_ to see me!?” He sounds beyond irritated by now, and the lines, rather than sounding flirty or clever, just serve to make it very obvious that this is rehearsed.

            “Boss…?” comes a hesitant voice from what sounds like through a skylight. “Boss… do we put the laser sights on them now?”

            “Gosling, you cretin!” snaps another voice. “He said radio silence!”

            “I’m not _using_ a radio!” snaps the first one

            “Well, he didn’t give the signal!” hisses the second. “The signal is ‘fleeting impression’ and then ‘point’!”

            “Oh, right, sorry,” says the first. There is silence once more from the upper windows.

            Jim looks immensely put upon. “Jim Moriarty,” he snaps. “Hi!”

            “Hi,” says John.

            Jim’s eyes meet his in an angry ‘don’t you dare say anything’ stare.

            “Right, sorry,” says John, backing down.

            Jim turns back to Sherlock again. “Jim from the hospital,” he grits out.

            “Yes,” says Sherlock. “Tinted eyebrows, hair product, green underwear.”

            “Did I really make such a _fleeting impression_?” says Jim.

            “Is that the signal?” is hissed from above.

            “Wait for ‘point’,” says the second.

            “Yep, yep, got it.”

            “I suppose that was rather the _point_!” grits out Jim.

            “Was that the signal?” mutters apparently Gosling.

            Jim’s eyes flare up in stifled rage. “What do _you_ think, you twit?!” he yells upwards.

            “Right Boss, sorry Boss.”

            John’s chest starts dancing with the small beam of a torch, the shadow of a sharpie X shape drawn slightly shakily in the centre of it.

            “Gosling!” snaps Jim, seeing it. “I told you _lasers_! Like _gun_ lasers! Because of _guns_!”

            “Everywhere was shut!” whines the first voice. “Would you rather I brought _Christmas lights_?”

            “They were meant to be _gun sights_!”

            “Our guns don’t _have_ sights!” snaps Gosling, “We’re professional snipers! That’s like asking Olympic cyclists to dig out their stabilisers!”

            There is a scuffle from the upper storey and a muffled gunshot and Gosling abruptly stops talking. From the sudden change of ‘sight’ angle, somebody else has snatched the torch.

            “Don’t be silly,” adds Jim, the lines forced out between teeth. “Somebody else is holding the rifle.”

            “Yeah, I think we guessed that,” says John.

            “I don’t like to get my hands dirty,” Jim continues. “I mean, this is just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve- Damnit!!” He runs a frustrated hand through his gelled down hair and manages not only to get his ‘clean’ hands covered in hair gel, but also to make his hair into a ragged birds’ nest. “I spent thirty million quid on this stupid plan and _now_ look at it!”

            “Thirty million?” scoffs Sherlock. “I doubt you even hired the pool.”

            “His snipers had to pick the lock,” says John. “One of them left the stolen keys at home.”

            “If this is a glimpse of what you’ve got going on,” adds Sherlock, “I’m considerably less worried about the safety of London-”

            “You’re not supposed to say that!” howls Jim.

            “What, is it not written in the script?”

            Jim rapidly increases his pace around the pool, stamping out each step in Italian leather, looking like throttling Sherlock and John before they can say anything else would be doing them a favour.

            “Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to keep my sister safe and well whilst I marry my boyfriend Raoul?”

            “Shut up.”

            “Dear Jim, can you fix it for me to borrow a nice car and go for a drive with my wife?”

            “Shut up!”

            “Dear Jim, my blind grandmother’s boiler is broken. Could you fix it for her without blowing up her entire block of flats?”

            Jim snarls and throws himself towards Sherlock, who grabs him just before he can get to his neck, spins them both round, and chucks the criminal in the direction of the pool. There is a large, damning splash, and then a sobbed gasp and coughing.

            When the water has finished churning, Jim’s face scrunches up into pained upset and he says, “this is Westwood,” in almost a whimper, looking down at his suit. He kicks his way over to the bar at the side of the pool and levers himself out with great, dripping difficulty onto the side, to lie there in indignity and misery.

            “Do you want to borrow the parka?” asks John. “It’s rather comfortable.”

            “No…” whines Jim. His teeth have started to chatter. He climbs to his knees and then to his feet.

            On John’s chest, the torch beam splutters once, twice, a third time, and then goes out.

            “Boss!?” comes a hesitant shout.

            “Oh just shut up and leave me alone!” yells Jim.

            “Right, you heard the Boss,” comes a muffled instruction. “We’re not needed. Get your arses out of here-”

            “No-” Jim’s soft, incredulous protest is drowned out by the sound of twelve armed men exiting a roof.

            “I take it you don’t want the missile plans then,” says Sherlock.

            “Not really,” mutters Jim, as the disbelief of a man whose entire life has gone down the drain grows steadily into despair on his face.

            “Can I remove the bomb vest now?” asks John.

            “No! That’s my only leverage! You move and you get blown to smithereens, you half-witted son of a-”

            “It’s just it’s a bit redundant now that the snipers have left with the switch.”

            “What?” croaks Jim.

            “They left with the bomb’s trigger switch. It’s not turned on.”

            Jim looks as if his pet dog has just jumped in front of a bus.

            “I thought it was an explode-on-contact bomb vest,” says Sherlock.

            “It’s made to look like one,” says John, “and, I must admit, it’s very convincing, but I overheard what it was made of and how to switch it on when Moriarty was going over the plan… um… earlier.”

            “I _hate_ you!” snarls Jim.

            “Mutual,” says Sherlock. “Take it off then, John.”

            John starts removing layers of bomb vest and parka, setting them both to the side and brushing off his cardigan. Jim’s face crumples and he looks as if he might cry.

            Then, breaking into the quiet between the three of them, a tinny, electronic BeeGees ringtone starts up from a damp pocket.

            Jim picks up almost immediately, like it’s his lifeline. “Hello? Yes, it’s fucking _me_ , Adler! It’s _my_ phone!” He waits a few seconds, listening to the ‘Adler’ on the other end, his face growing grimmer. “That fucking better be true, you cocky bitch, or I’m pulling out your eyeballs through your nose! If you’re lying to me, I’ll make your _skin_ into _shoes_ , Adler, and I’m fucking not talking Gucci, here. I will make ugly shoes out of your face and then take _pleasure_ in _stamping_ on it for _all eternity_! …Don’t talk to _me_ about _cross_ , Adler! I will burn your fucking hands!” He breathes heavily for a few moments and glances at Sherlock. Then, as Adler says something he doesn’t like, his eyes snap back into space again. “No I’m not discussing money!” he yells. “Rich?! You’ll be fucking lucky to have your _mangy hair_ all perfect and correct by the end of this and a voice to ask for water with, let alone a fucking shit-ton of cash! Don’t test my patience!!” And, with that, he hangs up and throws the phone heatedly into the pool-side tiles: a smack as it cracks and a plop as it sinks.

            “I’m going,” says Jim. He snatches the parka up from where John has abandoned it, pulls it on, and stalks out of the door.

            There comes a muffled shriek of displeasure from behind it and Jim slams back out of the cleaning cupboard to stomp back towards the main doors, his expensive ferragamos making squelching noises on each step.

            “You’ll be hearing from me, Sherlock!” he yells behind him.

            “Looking forward to it!” replies Sherlock, as Jim leaves.

John just giggles. “Well,” he says, “That went… swimmingly.”

Sherlock starts to chuckle, covering his mouth with his hand. He holds up in one hand a ring of keys and a flat, expensive-looking leather wallet.

...

_(Jim walks home with water in his shoes and murder in his eyes.)_

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hope you liked it! Tell me what you found funny and what you didn’t, because I probably still need to tweak a few things. I welcome your feedback, so please leave reviews! ;)  
> A
> 
> PS. I just want to flag that I didn't come up with the Jim accidentally going into a storage cupboard thing: that idea came from Tumblr from two different sources that I can't remember.


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